


We'll take a Cup of Kindness Yet

by Carbon65



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexual Grantaire, Cold Weather, Cooking is sexy, Eddie Redmayne is my face claim for Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras is the ruler of Google drive, Family of Choice, Food, Gen, Marijuana, Rule 63, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, holiday party, isnt Grantaire canonically bisexual?, which is the only relevant orientation anywhere, wipbigbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-22 20:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: They’re having some sort of winter holiday… thing. She’s never quite sure what to call these gatherings. They're not religious, and they’re not meetings; they have regular meetings and this is not one. But, it’s not quite a party, either. It could be if they decided on a theme or reason, beyond “its cold and we’re all busy and everyone else is getting together, so let’s eat food and enjoy each other.” So, it’s a thing. That works right? They’re having a December Thing.In which life happens, R discovers Enjolras can cook, Gavroche eats vegetables, Courf totally planned that party game and having close friends is just generally awesome.





	We'll take a Cup of Kindness Yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the WipBigBang, and I had the pleasure of working with the absolutely incredible [afteriwake]() ([pennywaltzy](https://pennywaltzy.tumblr.com) on tumblr) who created this amazing fan mix. You can find it on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/afteriwake/we-ll-take-a-cup-of-kindness-yet-a-fanfic-inspired-les-miserables-fanmix) and [tumblr](https://pennywaltzy.tumblr.com/post/186683231042/fanmix-for-well-take-a-cup-of-kindness-yet-a).
> 
> Also thank you to [PennySparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennysparrow/pseuds/pennysparrow) for betaing and cheerleading. 
> 
> Warnings  
> \--------  
> Lots of food, lots of alcohol, some marijuana, internalized ableism, and bad parents.

They’re having some sort of winter holiday… thing. She’s never quite sure what to call these gatherings. First of all, they cannot reference any holiday by name, in deference to both strong atheism and strong religious sentiments in the group, and the diversity of winter holidays. The ABC doesn’t really care _why_ you chose to fight for social justice, as long as you're willing to fight. (She’s not entirely sure why they tolerate her, but they seem to.) There had been a proposal of “Yule”, but that has northern european overtones. Even New Years is out, because they’re not so much celebrating the New Year yet (that will happen shortly before the start of the semester, when everyone has returned from wherever the fuck they go during their end of the year break). So, “December” modifies whatever the fuck they’re doing. (“That’s what she said” adds her mental Musichetta).

As far as the actual descriptor for the event… that’s not entirely clear either. This is not a meeting. They have regular meetings, and this isn’t one. For one thing, this will not reference anything derived from Robespierre, _Robert’s Rules of Order_ , _Manifesto for Agile Software Development_ , or _Good Night Moon_ which R typically associates with official meetings (ABC and otherwise). It doesn’t feel like a party either. Not because R dislikes any of the people who will be in attendance… but maybe because it’s closer to a wine, cheese, and trivial pursuit and less trashy karaoke, sky high heels, swing dancing, and going home with a man whose pants are tighter than hers. (And no, that’s a mistake she will not be making again.) They might be able to pull off party, though, if they could decide on a theme or reason beyond “it’s cold and we’re all busy and everyone else is getting together, so we feel obligated to eat food and enjoy each other.” (Never mind that she’s pretty sure Enjolras doesn’t really enjoy her company. Sure, Bahorel thinks she’s fucking hilarious, but Bahorel also giggles for 15 minutes straight at badly spelled tattoos.) So, it’s a _Thing_. That works, right? They’re having a December Thing.

The plan for the Thing is outlined with the precision of any event Enjolras plans. Less than twenty-four hours after they agree they’re going to do the Thing™, an invitation to a Google Drive folder goes out and a Doodle Poll goes out. It’s hella organized, which is maybe to be expected from Enjolras. There are sign up sheets for foods and games, directions to Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s house by three bus routes (which is impressive but perhaps also short sighted), and instructions to keep the Thing™ safe and fun for everyone.

R doesn’t look much farther than signing up for drinks. She _could_ do something else, but she likes to stick with her wheelhouse, and expectations, and she’s pretty damn good at matching drinks to people. It would be some kind of superpower, if she actually decides to go the art school cliche and get a job waiting tables. And, while booze is expensive, it doesn’t rely on a lot of prep work ahead of time. 

For the record, (not that anyone is keeping one), R _can_ cook. Her Bubbe taught her. Unlike some people she lives with (Bossuet), it’s been more than two months since she set off the fire alarm. R can usually get through a week with just one or two trips to the grocery store, if she puts a little bit of thought into what she has, but cooking for this many people will require planning, shopping, prep work, first cooking and possibly second cooking at Enjolras and Combeferre’s house. Which… she just doesn’t want to do that. Some people might read that as lazy as hell. If she’s trying to reframe, she might say that she finds the darkness during winter oppressive, and working two jobs is exhausting, and she kind of hates the hype because nothing ever lives up, and she’s just not quite sure she’ll have the energy. But, lazy sits easier in her mind. So, she’ll go with lazy.

All that said, she’s really excited for it. To be honest, she’s maybe too excited for it. Her Thanksgiving kind of sucked. Well, not the actual Thanksgiving. She crashed Bahorel and his girlfriend’s dinner, where they played canned Thanksgiving roulette, and then made orange chicken spring rolls and some kind of chicken and/or turkey and rice soup and drank shitty beer and watched college football on TV.

She hasn’t quite decided if she really likes football. She loves the way the spirit catches her up, and moves her (and everyone else in close proximity) into this little well of community. She loves the way football makes her feel; like she belongs without question. She hates the things that football stands for, though. She hates the way the game is exploitative, the number of harmful injuries that people risk for her amusement. It’s like a damn gladiatorial contest, and R’s not sure there needs to be gladiatorial conquests in the 21st century. Still, she doesn’t think there’s much she can do to change the system. So, she watches with other people, but never goes out of the way to put on a game, herself. She will root for whoever is on, buy beer or stand for push ups when they score, but she doesn’t own merchandise. She’s not actively involved, but she doesn’t boycott, either. 

She’d had to leave Bahorel’s early on Thanksgiving. Not because she has ambiguous feelings towards football and Bahorel and Risa were headed into game number… six or seven. But, because even R is not brave enough to face the five am Black Friday horde without some sleep. She has _some_ self preservation instincts. She knows Bahorel disapproves, but Bahorel also understands that a girl has student loans to pay and that capitalism sucks. And, Black Friday is a day of soulless capitalism, if ever there was one. So, she paints a smile on her face, consumes an ungodly amount of coffee, puts a bounce in her step that she doesn’t feel, and faces the masses.  
Afterwards, she sits at home in a bathtub of epsom salts, praying the swelling in her knees will go down enough that she can stand through Small Business Saturday, Let’s-Buy-Shit-Because-There-Are-Sales Sunday, and Cyber Monday. 

By ten on Monday morning, she knows that December hasn’t even started yet, and this is how she’ll spend the rest of her month: a constant cycle of cold, fatigue, overtime, and Christmas Muzak. She swears, if she has to hear about mommy kissing Santa one more time, she’s going to sit little Johnny down and have a talk with him about Voyeurism, right after she figures out how to get her knees to shut up.  
Of course, her other job - the one she’d really like to be doing but can’t support herself with full time - has also added demands. So, instead of going home and sleeping, she winds up using six years of digital art training to Photoshop a Christmas hat onto a gerbil for someone’s Christmas card. They will withdraw their commission the third week of December, once she sends them their card mock ups, and will short her $250 for her work.

Really, given her holiday schedule, she thinks it’s kind of amazing she can find time for the ABC Thing at all. Of course, she’s not alone in this. They all have busy December's, between work, other work, other other work, classes, exams, term papers, medical rotations, activism, volunteer work, unpaid internships, family obligations, religious commitments, conference presentations, holiday travel, and general December burnout. (R doesn’t get December burnout, but Enjolras and Ferre end up with it hard. Even Jehan gets kind of twitchy around the 18th, after yet _another_ holiday poetry session where someone has yet again plagiarized _Twas the Night Before Christmas_. Unironically). 

Being the ABC, they decided to go with the most democratic method possible for scheduling the damn Thing™, which is to say via Doodle Poll. Once the date is set, they work hard to clear their schedules, although life necessitates that Feuilly and Combeferre both switch their shifts, Joly to start his experiment on Friday so it will be finished by Wednesday, Musichetta to attend a different Bible Study group and Marius to slip out of his Dutch tutorial 20 minutes early. R simply puts the date on the work calendar as a personal day and offers her manager that she will cover Christmas Eve with no more than the minimal requisite complaining if she can just have this day off.

* * *

The day of the ~~party~~ Thing™, R is half afraid and half hopeful her manager will call her into work. Surely, there must be some (other) nineteen year old dumbass who managed to spill a mixture of enerjets dissolved in coffee spiked with red bull on their computer keyboard just before their final was due, with no back-up in place. (Not that this is an example pulled from real life.) If work calls, she’ll have an excuse not to show up. Except that if she doesn’t go, she’ll have to sit at home with the thoughts inside her own head. And, that’s never good. 

To distract herself, she goes to one of her favorite local coffee houses, and fucks around on her computer, trying to carefully airbrush the gerbil’s fur to make it look like it fits in the (hopefully faux) winter landscape it’s owners have created. She really hopes they didn’t place their tiny desert rodent in the fucking snow for the sake of a kitschy holiday greeting card. But, people are assholes and you never know. 

A little over an hour before the ~~par~~ Thing™ is supposed to start, R heads off to get her contribution. She’s either terribly lucky, or terribly unlucky. The little liquor store where she goes is having a sale. Liquor stores _never_ have sales. And so, the money she planned to spend ends up going a little bit further. Which, of course, means that she has more purchases than expected. It would be fine, except that R doesn’t have a car and Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are coming from the other direction. 

In a perverse show of continuing good luck, the bus is on time, despite the sleet that starts falling. (She thinks of that Diane Duane line about pure anything being dangerous…) Damn, she was counting on it being late, like always. Of course, the driver is the one who drops her off at the Musain twice a week. The one who sometimes has that late night bus route that she likes to take after she’s had too much to drink. Not so much that she can’t navigate the city bus route, obviously, but enough. Lugging a backpack, two shopping bags and a cooler that clink suspiciously onto the bus, she shoots the driver a look that says, “I dare you to comment.” 

The driver doesn’t comment. But, they’re also a damn good bus driver, and they expertly navigate their route, which means that she is also on time when the bus lurches into the stop indicated by her phone where she collects her bags, cooler, backpack, and maybe her dignity. (R isn’t sure if she still has dignity. Dignity seems to be a luxury item these days, and it doesn’t feel like one she’s been able to afford. Not since she needed to renew her photoshop license.) As the bus pulls away, she stands shivering under the clear plastic roof of the bus shelter as she fishes in an outer pocket of her massive backpack for gloves. The gloves she, of course, forgot.

She arrives at the Triumvirate house a little bit early. Which is to say, she’s there at 4:52 pm for a five o’clock party. With friends who are nearly always half an hour fashionably late for everything. (It’s bad enough in the past that they’ve lied to Jehan about when protests start to make sure he’d arrived on time.) Worse, Joly has just texted to say that he’s running late in the lab. At least, that’s what she assumes from the stream of seemingly incomprehensible letters. She's pretty sure Caco2 is not some new autocorrect mistake. Unlike her early arrival.

She stands uncomfortably on the front stoop. She’s not sure if she wants to ring the bell. If she does, it might mean that she cares too much. And, she works hard to cultivate an air of not caring about anything. She’s totally into twenty-first Century Nihilism.™ Except, not like shitty mass-market fedora twenty-first century Nihilism.TM More like “gave so many fucks that there are no more fucks left to give”, which is maybe realism? Yeah, she likes realism.

Except, that really? She can feel the cold seeping through the thin rubber soles of her cheap boots. The damp makes her toes ache in the million places that were never a problem until after she dropped out of ballet. (She always liked social dancing better, but “Ballet gives you a foundation, Rebecca.”) Her little toes are already unhappy with her, pushing against the constraints of a shoe, and that invisible joint above her arch (the one that doesn’t feel like it should be a joint) aches. And… she can feel the blood leaving her fingers. She's not supposed to let them get cold. That was the doctor’s advice: If your hands shut down because of cold, don't let them get cold. Really, fucking brilliant.  
She rings the goddamn door bell.

The door opens, and the scent of home almost bowls R over. It smells fucking incredible, like rosemary and sage and caramelized onions. Visceral memories hit her in the gut and almost make her double over because of how much she aches with longing. It smelled like this when she was growing up and going over to her Bubbe’s after school to help with whatever her grandmother was doing that week (and to avoid her father). Bubbe was a damn good cook, would still be cooking if she hadn’t had the stroke and R’s father hadn’t put her in the nursing home. (She’s as sharp as ever, but her speech is slurred, and her left hand doesn’t work anymore.) If it was Friday, after R and her grandmother finished, they’d sit down at the table, and Bubbe would say the prayers and light the candles, and R would feel safe. She misses Bubbe so damn much, her grandmother is the best person in her family. 

“Hey, Taire. Can I help you with anything?” Courf is there. Of course Courf is there. He’s holding an arm out for a bag, or a hug, she’s not really sure.

She stares at him, dumbfounded for an entirely different reason. “Are those… reindeer… dancing the … macarena?”

Courf’s eyes twinkle as he picks up one of reusable grocery bags R totally didn’t steal from Jehan. “It’s great to see you, R.” 

She follows him inside, into the warm front hall that smells like safety, stomping the icy slush from her boots on the cheery red welcome mat.

“We’ve got the bar in the living room. And Musichetta brought over your crock pots yesterday, so those and the juice are set up.” Courf leads the way.

She’s only seen the house from the outside, dropping something off for Combeferre once. The building is old. It’s not that tired 1970’s retro feel of the shit hole she lives in, with wooden trim, the textured off-white walls, and pamphlets about lead poisoning. This is older, stabler, maybe built with better materials. It isn’t large, no bigger than the apartment that she shares with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, but the doorways are wide. The floor is gently worn, but polished wood. Still, it’s not so slick that it makes traction difficult. 

He leads the way into the living room, which is comfortable but sparse and then disappears to help Ferre with something in the kitchen. There’s a futon pushed up against one wall, the black frame and blue mattress reminiscent of a dorm room. Next to it sits a massive bean bag in a lurid purple. The TV is in a corner with a gaming system, and a few wireless controllers thrown haphazardly on one of the thrift store side tables. She’s a little bit surprised. She doesn’t really imagine Enjolras coming home and unwinding with a video game. Hell, she didn’t think Enjolras would even own a TV. She’s always seemed more like an old-school record type.

R finds the folding table, covered in a red plastic tablecloth, and a nearby cooler of ice. The two crockpots (one hers and one borrowed) are hooked up to a power cord that snakes behind the TV. She starts with the crockpots. They need time if this is going to be good, and she wants it to be good. She doesn’t cook, isn’t really cooking, but she still wants this to tell people she loves them. Because food is a way to say I love you without words.

Courf disappears, she thinks he said something about vegetables. She’s too focused on getting things set up. She takes her time unpacking, carefully putting the juice and soda in a cooler, setting up beers the second smaller one, and arranging the wine just so. 

R finds it relaxing to set up a bar. The set up here is not as good as her bar at home, a bookshelf from Ikea that might belong in a cheap imitation of Thomas Jefferson’s study, their post-baccalaureate attempt at moving from bacchanalia to the classy-trashy drunkenness of _Cards Against Humanity_ and _Exploding Kittens_. She and Musichetta furnished it with the results of several thrift store adventures. Bossuet couldn’t be trusted to buy glassware for the bar, and the patina of dust in second hand stores makes Joly feel itchy and unclean. (He’s totally fine with the things once they come home and are washed, but the in-store options make him nervous.) Even without her vintage glassware, though, R feels like she’s done a good job. After all, R is an artist and booze is just another medium.

But, she comes to a point where she needs to sit. She’s almost happy that Courfeyrac and Combeferre are off doing their vegetable thing, Enjolras is... wherever the fuck Enjolras is, and everyone is leaving her alone for a moment. Normally, she likes people. They drown out the words in her head and that makes her feel safe. But, there are some things which are too … personal? Embarrassing? Frightening? Disconcerting? R loves her friends _and_ there are things that are too disconcerting to let them see. She knows they won’t care, but _she_ cares. 

Her knees object to something: maybe a subtle drop in the barometric pressure, or the hours she spent standing in shoes that might look nice but feel every cent of their $20 price tag, or something she ate. Maybe her knees just object to everything and nothing. Maybe they’re just the symptom of an immune system that wants to protect her so badly that it’s dismantling her body one joint at a time. 

There’s a part of her - a not so small part - that wants to go home, take a long bath, and then tuck herself into bed with a compression wrap, an herbal tea and a book on fifteenth century China. And probably the aching loneliness that will come from leaving. The right answer is probably to call her doctor to bug her insurance again, and take a massive does of painkillers in the interim. Ibuprofen is the one that fucks with your kidneys, right? So, if she takes like 600 mg with a beer that wouldn’t be bad? Good.

The doorbell rings before she can open her drink. Courf comes out of what must be the dining room at a run, ready with skid across the living room, only to be stopped short by the slight stickiness of the wood. She empathizes with him: the floor looks amazing for sliding. 

Her friends pile into the house, dripping onto the floor and a doormat. Joly laughs as he pulls off his foggy glasses, rubbing them on his coat. She can see his white cane sticking out of his jacket pocket, where it won’t be forgotten or disturbed. Bossuet plucks a hat off his head, his ears still pink. Musichetta looks fondly over at both of her boys, stuffing her hat and gloves into the pocket of her puffer coat. There’s a tupperware and a covered dish on the little side table, sitting on top of a dirty towel, and R goes to scoop them up. Chetta catches her in a chilly, slick one-armed embrace.

Courf extends his arms, dramatically, collecting the whole pile. “I’m going to throw these on Ferre’s bed.” He pauses, and glances over at her. “Taire, do you want me to take your coat?”

She blushes, feeling embarrassed for some reason that she’s still wearing her jacket. ...Maybe Ferre just decided to volunteer his room? Except there are a lot of them, and they can’t all just leave their coats by the door. That doesn’t seem like something that would go unnoticed in the Wonder Twin’s house. She thinks of Combeferre as having a plan A, B, and C for nearly everything, with plans D through J just waiting in the wings somewhere. (And then there’s Enjolras, who may not have quite so many plans, but changes pace quickly.) Maybe Courf just forgot to tell her where to put her coat, because Ferre and Enjolras were waiting for her to realize she isn’t _actually_ welcome, and that she should go get drunk at a bar somewhere. (Or else, someone told Courf and Courf just forgot. But, probably the first one.)

“Courf! Get your ass in here!” Enjolras has always been bossy. “I need help with a bird.”

Courf pushes the coats into Bossuet’s arms. “Ferre’s room is on the left.” 

She tries to remember how Bossuet knows which room is Ferre’s, then she remembers who before he ended up moving in with them, he was “between apartments” due to a strange set of circumstances that came together in ridiculous ways to result in a season of couch surfing. These included, but were not limited to, a popcorn fire caused by someone else, the sudden appearance of a mother-in-law, lemon scented pledge, and an almost antique game of Dance Dance Revolution.

She, Courf, Joly and Chetta hurry through a dining room, passing a wall of photos where she catches glimpses of the golden trio together, of Bossuet holding Bahorel three inches off his feet, of Cosette's blue hair.

And then they’re in the kitchen. And, holy fuck.

The room is a modern Norman Rockwell painting of controlled chaos. Enjolras is there, oven open, glaring at a golden brown turkey. She’s got a pair of pot holders in her lap and a couple of those awesome oven rack tools Feuilly carved last year hooked around the shelf where the bird is laying in all its glory. 

“I can’t quite get the leverage to get it out.” Courf and Musichetta go over to help with the oven.

R backs up until she finds a wall. Okay, holy fuck. Enjolras can roast a turkey. Because it’s very clearly Enjolras’s turkey. The blond is looking down at it with the sort of pride that mothers apply to children’s art projects. Not only can Enjolras roast a turkey, the bird is fucking beautiful. And, it smells amazing. 

And, like, holy fuck, this probably means Enjolras can cook things less difficult than a turkey. Like a roast chicken. And, she doesn't know why it's a revelation. Because it’s a basic fucking life skill, and Enjolras is a Real Adult™. And, cooking is totally in line with third wave feminism, and … 

And holy fuck. Enjolras can cook. R is so fucking turned on right now.

“The thermometer says it’s 165. That’s high enough, right Combeferre?” Enjolras’ voice is the sing-song of a tease.

Ferre doesn’t move from the stool where he’s working. “I’m a vegetarian,” he reminds Enjolras, patiently. “I don’t eat fish or fowl.”

“Tofurky _is_ foul.” Enjolras objects, trying to frown as the grin splits her face.

Combeferre sighs dramatically, the fond frustration of a straight man setting up a joke that's been made a hundred times. That he’s the only straight person in the house only makes that joke funnier. He goes back to slicing up root vegetables. He’s already got something that’s probably squash or pumpkin broken down, and he’s working his way through a pile of beets.

“Do you - bathroom?” R’s tongue stumbles over the words as she stumbles toward him.

“Aire!” Combeferre greets her with a friendly delight that can’t be faked. He picks up the cane resting against the table and leevers himself to his feet with a grunt, and then catches her in a warm hug. Ferre’s hugs are rarer than Courf’s, but all the more precious for when they happen. “Com’on, I’m nearly owl out of bird puns, and they’re about to start flying in fast.”

The bathroom is thankfully sterile, quiet, and empty of blondes who are going to make R forget about how bad her current meds will make her future hangover. Because… because… because Enjolras cooking is just too much for R’s damn crush. Because even though she lies about it, she wants a family where she and her partner share their chores. And, because, like, it’s Enjolras. Enjolras can fucking cook. And, it’s so… it’s so fucking. GAH.

And, she can’t say anything. She is a coward and she can’t say anything. Because R doesn’t want her crush to ruin their friendship. Because R values their friendship. And, because R has heard Enjolras rant too many times about how a good potential relationship has been ruined by a tongue in a mouth. R is certainly not going to make that mistake. She’s a Hot Mess™, but she knows enough to not antagonize Enjolras enough that they’d end up having a massive fight, and splitting up the friend group. Enjolras will end up with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, of course. And then, of course, they’ll win over Feuilly and Jehan. And, Bahorel will follow because he and Jehan have an epic Bromance, and Risa was Bahorel’s girlfriend before she was R’s friend, and so she’ll end up leaving her too. Marius will go with Courf, because the only social issues where Marius doesn’t seem to get lost in a paper bag are the ones where he follows Courf (and somehow, Marius has an inexplicable talent for still getting turned around.) She and Cosette don’t know each other well enough for Cosette to choose her over him. And, Ponine might try, but in the end, it will be Gav who decides her, and Gavroche worships both Courferyac and Bahorel. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta might take longer, but eventually, they’ll realize that Enjolras is a better bet, too. And then, all her friends will go… and she’ll be left alone on a deserted island with no one for company but that Rheumatology nurse who has to take her blood pressure like 80 times, Irma’s one-eyed pug, and a cardboard cutout of a shirtless Jeff Goldblum she bought on a whim for half price at a going out of business sale. And all the thoughts that will echo, echo, echo, echo in her head.

* * *

The living room is more crowded when she emerges from the bathroom. The gently pulsating sounds both familiar and new: Feuilly, no doubt, playing DJ. It sounds festive and warm, the deep voices speaking a language she can’t quite make out. Feuilly is basically amazing at not only selecting the most appropriate music for an event, but, also, just the best music, period.

Joly and Bahorel’s partner in crime, Risa, are talking in the corner. As she passes, she picks up a few words. “-- panites for Bri Larson. Rel-- ”

Eponine and Bossuet are working at something on the coffee table. Ponine is industriously coloring Karl Marx’s face purple, while Bossuet gives Kant a pasley coat that looks like something Bahorel would find in a thrift store. Because of course someone found a philosopher coloring book. And, of course Enjolras would have the good crayons. The 96 pack of Crayolas so big it comes with its own sharpener and boxes, the kind of crayons that said you had money, or someone who cared about you. Now, they’re spread out over the table in a heap that would have made eight year old R squirm. Twenty eight year old R considers dropping down to join them, but twenty eight year old R is also realistic about how bad her knees really are and how much she wants to lie about it. 

Feuilly is hanging out by the stereo, looking tentative. She almost bounces over, but stops a safe distance away. “Can I hug you?” 

Enjolras would call it a consent thing. She just likes to think of it as being a decent fucking person. Feuilly doesn’t like it when people hug them out of nowhere. She can respect that.  
Joly, Bossuet, Chetta, they’re all tactile people. Hell, most of the Amis are tactile people. Hucheloup once took them aside in the Musain and pointed out that while she was glad they were so close, the amount of touching between them was confusing patrons, and while her regulars were relatively liberal, almost getting caught between Bahorel and Courfeyrac running across the bar to perform an acrobatic, flying embrace (“like rampaging bulls”) had scared even the most stalwart of them. “If you wouldn’t do it in your grandma’s house, don’t do it here,” Hucheloup had said in mock severity.

Feuilly smiles, and pulls her in close. They smell like a combination of artificial orange, static electricity, and damp. “Aire! Happy December?”

“December.” She confirms. “I’m not sure 2018 was happy for anyone. At least it’s been a quick trainwreck, though.”

They sigh. There are words that they want to say, but don’t. It’s a party, a respite. Feuilly manages to find words that allude R. “Well, I’m happy to be here with you.”

“I’m happy to be here with you, too. What’s new?” 

Feuilly, who she normally thinks of as a little bit shy, starts telling her stories about the music gigs they’ve picked up recently. Feuilly is anything but shy while they talk about music.

* * *

“What can I get you to drink?” R motions in the general direction of the bar. “I’ve got water, wine, beer, cider, juice, soda, pick your poison. There’s hot, too…”

“Wine,” Feuilly decides. They rarely indulge, so tonight must be a special celebration. 

She pours a sip of the cabernet, and offers it to Feuilly. “Try that?”

They swirl it tentatively, smell it, and then taste it like someone who has seen wine drunk on TV but never tried it themselves. It’s a perfect mimic. They roll it around their mouth a bit before they swallow. After a moment of consideration, they smile at R. She pours them more. Feuilly cups the stemless glass between their two hands, and runs a thumb along the outside. “Jehan and Joly’ll probably want one, too.”

She nods, and collects glasses. “Where’s Jehan?”

Feuilly shrugs. “He got a really nice Salvia.”

“So, he and Bahorel are outside?”

Enjolras and Combeferre aren’t big on weed in the house. Then again, neither are of several of their other friends. Ponine pretty much vomits at the smell, which confuses a lot of the stoners who would like to introduce her to the stuff. Jehan is respectful. Frequently high, but respectful.

They nod.

She hesitates. It’s tempting to disappear back out into the night and the cold. It might help… God. Fuck. It’s tylenol that fucks with your liver, as Comferre has reminded her, and she’s just going to have some naproxen. That’s her kidneys that are fucked, there, right? It’s good that she doesn't have lupus, as far as she knows, there aren’t any joints in your kidneys so her arthritic ass should be fine? 

“Gav is in the kitchen, because, according to Ponine, he only eats vegetables when he is in imminent danger of losing fingers in the process,” Feuilly continues unaware of R’s current dilemma. 

“Are Courf and Chetta there, too?” She tries to figure out if there’s an actual, practical way to carry drinks to the kitchen. 

“No, just Ferre and Enjolras. They said they needed to finish something. Courf is eventually going to drag them out and make them play host. Courf decided to go with Chetta to run an errand.” 

She winces. She’s run a fair number of “errands” for Bossuet and Joly over the years. It’s a codeword which can be roughly translated as “important enough to solve and concerning enough not to actually name”. So, an errand could be anything from getting Joly’s migraine meds (unlikely, because he tends to carry them on his person) to getting Bossuet’s car out of impound.

Feuilly misinterprets the expression. “It’s a party. Courf told you he brought the kazoos, right?”

“Kazoos?”

“Kazoos. He got the idea from some Tumblr post. If the political debate gets too fraught, whether real or fictional, we shall blow the kazoos of civility.” Feuilly explains the idea like it's the most reasonable thing they’ve heard today. Given that Feuilly’s current third job is selling college basketball tickets, that might actually be true.

“What do you mean, real or fictional?” R is slightly concerned.

Feuilly chuckles, knowing their friends. “Oh, Jehan and Ferre aren’t allowed to debate the relative merits of various space rebels.”  
Which… to be fair had almost ruined a few too many good parties. Don’t get her wrong, R is as much of a fan of fantasy as the next girl, but the last party had nearly ended in a two day George Lucas marathon. And, as much as R loves her friends, she does not 15-hours-of-Star-Wars-in-a-single-weekend love them.

There is really only one relevant question, given this revelation. “So, where do I get a kazoo?”

* * *

R’s rumbling stomach, the laughter, and the smells coming out of the kitchen are almost enough to lure her into the warmth. She doesn’t know why, but all good parties start and end in the kitchen. She usually likes to be at the center of good parties. But, she’s avoiding Enjolras, because most days she feels like she’s eight instead of twenty-eight. Clearly, the best way to deal with any embarrassing crush is to avoid the situation as much as possible. Feuilly has already gone in to move their dish into the oven. Risa followed them shortly thereafter. Gavroche still hasn’t emerged. 

Courf and Chetta’s arrival forces her to make a choice. They come into the house, trailed by a very pink Marius. It’s unclear whether he’s that color from some embarrassment she hasn’t witnessed, the cold, or a combination of the two. 

Cosette appears shortly thereafter, carrying a pan. “Sorry I’m running late, these took a little bit longer than I expected!” 

Marius lifts the lid reverently. “Are those … The Carrots?” You can hear the capital letters.

“Yes.” Cosette smiles. “I know you and Courf like them. And, I’ve even seen Gavroche eat them. On a plate. At the table.”

“That in and of itself is a minor miracle,” R agrees.

“I need to heat them up, though. They got cold.” Cosette shakes her head so the snowflakes in her blue hair catch the light and make her look like a fairy princess.

“To the kitchen!” Musichetta leads the group through the dining room. (Courf is dispatched to put the growing pile of coats and hats in Ferre’s room.)

They crowd into the noisy space, and into the controlled chaos of a party.

Jehan, Joly and Bahorel have just come in from outside, bringing with them cold air and the lingering smell of “inspiration”. (Jehan likes to describe his pot that way. Joly, who uses it for medical purposes when nothing else works, does not.) So inspired, Jehan plops down in a corner of the kitchen and starts extolling the virtues of the way light and darkness refract with the precipitation. Somewhere in the middle, Jehan is gently moved from the floor onto a stool. Eventually, the recitation turns into a stream of praise of friendship. It should sound cheesy. It doesn’t.

In a show of ~~Holiday Party~~ December Thing magic, Enjolras and Combeferre manage to find room for all the dishes being finalized. The turkey, looking majestic, rests under a tin-foil hat out of the way. 

Over at the sink, Courf grins and snaps occasionally as he grates potatoes. (He was probably supposed to do that before he and Muschetta left, but Courf, being Courf, well…). Eponine gets recruited to chop an onion. Eponine has terrifyingly awesome knife skills. Cosette’s carrots get placed on the stove safely away from the oil Risa is supervising for the latkes Courf will make. 

Bahorel and Feuilly crowd in to check the oven, looking at their dishes. Joly plates the cheese Jehan brought, and the crackers… at this point, it seems like Bahorel just buys those rice crackers in bulk and ends up leaving them places because they’re some kind of meeting/gathering/party/Thing staple at this point.

She’s thinking about retreating to the bar, when Chetta grabs her. She is recruited to chop parsley. R suspects the motivation is partially to show off a favorite party trick, and partially because Chetta is one of her best friends and knows that R will run and R should not run. R does best with people. And, apparently, with fragrant green herbs for a garnish that no one seems to understand.  
She ignores the way Enjolras’s gaze runs over her, until the blond is at her elbow. “I’ve never seen anyone do it that way.”

“It’s easier to do this than to try to chiffonade parsley.” R shrugs. “And scissors are safer with Bossuet.”

Enjolras tone is dry. “That’s what she said?”

“That _is_ what she said,” Musichetta agrees. “Hey, R, once you’re done with scissoring and Enjolras, what do you recommend to drink?”

Someone else - Enjolras this time - once again intercepts her bartending duties. “The mulled wine. If there’s another crock pot, R, you should totally mull some cider.”

“I umm… did? It’s in the blue pot?” She points vaguely in the direction of the living room. 

R is not totally inept, and warm cider is just as nice on a winter night as anything else. Nicer, maybe. She’d been trying to figure out the logistics for the last week, when she’d tentatively suggested it to Musichetta. Who’d simply… produced another crockpot. Because of course, there is another crock pot, because Musichetta lives in a household where three of the four adults go through periods with some sort of executive dysfunction. They deal with it in different ways. Musichetta has taken to planning thoroughly, whether or not the planning is always logical. R has visited Musichetta’s desk, where she keeps three kinds of migraine medications, and usually has a package of the aforementioned gluten free crackers that _Musichetta_ bought herself. 

“Nice!” Musichetta ducks through the rest of the party goers to the crowded sink, and rinses out her travel mug, leaving R and Enjolras alone.

“So, ummm…. How is your stuff?” R asks, incredibly articulate as always.

“End of the semester,” Enjolras lets out a sigh. “This is the part where I try to figure out if any of my students learned anything, and wait to find out if the department head calls me in to yell at me for terrorizing the freshman.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” Enjolras sounds indignant. 

R rolls her eyes. “Terrorize the freshman?”

Enjolras stares at her dumbfounded. “What, no? I’m… I’m the epitome of professional! I just ask them to think.” Her blond hair forms a corona around her head, and her eyes take on a passionate glint.

“They’re not a crusade, Apollo.” The words are half in jest. “Not every student is a budding political theorist.” 

“No, but they all live in a political world. Even the white boys who say they don’t need to be political.” Enjolras shakes her head, stopping a train of thought about politicized existence. She occasionally claims that living her life is the best act of protest she can engage in. “Although most of those kids transfer out at the beginning, before the semester penalty starts. After that, they have to pay. Although, of course, there are midterm kids, too.”

“Midterm kids?” 

She can feel the way the breath rises in her chest, snagging without fully catching. She’d dropped a class at midterms her junior year. She’d been spiraling out of control under the oppressive boundaries of weight of accounting, studio art, dance, three other classes, and the light changes with standard time. Her therapist has reminded her more than once that cutting back when she was overwhelmed and setting boundaries had been an act of self care and not of failure.

Enjolras must have noticed something in her face because she hurried to reassure her. “The ones who are struggling mid semester and get a reminder about the resources available and then email the head of the department to complain. But have never shown up for office hours. Or asked to meet outside of class. Or emailed for help.”

R had not been a mid semester kid, then. She’d failed all on her own. 

Enjolras sighs and runs her fingers through her short hair, making it stand up on end for a few glorious seconds. “I just have to grade the remaining essays and then… glorious freedom!”

“What are your break plans, then? Cocoa and Snowmen? Political activism via a public presence? Bathroom-based subversion?”

Enjolras had been a driving force behind a bathroom campaign to convert all the single stall toilets into gender neutral, wheelchair accessible bathrooms. It had involved a fair bit of letter writing, in person protesting, and, R’s favorite, posting increasingly ridiculous new labels on all the bathrooms. Putting her art training to work to design increasingly ridiculous bathroom signs has been one of the best forms of protest she’s ever engaged in. She is particularly proud of the Cthulhu and Godzilla signs they made in November. They were fully labeled in english, spanish, and Grade I braille so everyone could participate in the fun.

“If the opportunity arises.” Enjolras grins, deviously. “Mostly though, probably catch up on my reading. I’m going back to Montreal for a couple days to see my parents. What about you?”

“Not sure.” She shrugs. “There are lots of holiday hours. So, probably that and just… hanging out.”

R had made the trip to Bubbe’s nursing home for Hanukkah because it matters to her grandma. She already told her mom she wasn’t coming home. She hasn’t talked to her dad directly in years, not since she dropped out of accounting. Well, she guesses once when she dropped out of college, to tell him that he’d been right and she was entirely a failure. She knows her dad’s a bastard but it still hurts. So, she’ll stay home, and work. For Christmas, she’ll probably go to the Corinthe and celebrate by damaging her liver. And then, she’ll retreat to her blanket nest at home and sleep. 

Enjolras checks her phone. “I’ll be back on the 28th, if you want to hang out, then.”

R feels herself flushing, and opens her mouth to say --

“Ladies, Gentlemen, and those who know better!” Courf’s voice carries, cutting through the party. “Enjolras and Combeferre asked me to do the honors!”

“Yeah, because neither of us is dumb enough to stand on a folding chair,” Enjolras calls.

“Enjolras and Combeferre asked me to do the honors,” Courf repeats, ignoring her. “And so, without further ado… I give you our Holiday Party 2018!” He whips the foil hat off the turkey, with a grin. It’s a very pretty bird. Think Norman Rockwell. 

“Before we start eating, I’d like to toast!”

“White or wheat?” Bossuet demands. 

“To friendship!” Courf raises his mug with a radioactivity symbol on it… R has been remiss in her bartending duties because she has no idea what’s in there.

She drinks anyway, the warm beer somehow discordant with the sentiment. She should be drinking wine.

Jehan looks around. “‘May the warmth of our mutual affection continue to keep us warm through the cold of the winter and the apathy of the world.”

They drink.

R looks around, watching the steam rise lazily off the dishes on the groaning dining room table. “To friends and lovers!”

“Fuck the others!” Most of her friends reply, drinking as well.

Gavroche makes a face he probably thinks is serious. He raises his wine glass of sparkling cider (R knows, she checked). “To the turkey!” It sounds like a battle cry.

Laughing, they start lining up for food.

* * *

R thinks that if she could photograph an emotion, “contentment” might look like Enjolras and Combeferre’s living room. The evidence of their meal is spread around, plates set aside for conversation. No one has quite mustered the energy to carry them to the kitchen. Not that R would really object to carrying them to the kitchen. Somewhere in the space of the last four hours, she’s relaxed into Enjolras and Combeferre’s house enough that she’d be willing to do dishes there. When she’s a guest in someone’s home, she’s always awkward and she doesn’t know how to help. But, nothing says, “family” like walking into someone’s kitchen, finding a dish rag, and ending up in soap suds up to her elbows. Good friends treat you with kid gloves and shoo you out of the kitchen, great friends put you to work removing the last vestiges of Chetta’s caramels from their grandmother’s antique china plate.

Instead, R takes a languorous sip of the mint tea she helped Ferre brew a while ago. He’d said something about needing a hot drink, and she’d made motions about coffee. Enjolras had given a little half laugh in her throat, the kind of half amused half unsure thing she does and then explained that unless R had brought coffee with her, there wasn’t any in the house. Caffeine fucks with Ferre’s physiology and Enjolras makes a point to go buy her caffeine somewhere else because it makes sure she leaves the house. Which… fuck. R might have to institute that policy. Because it’s brilliant.

They’re coming to a point in the night where manners say they should be going. That she should untangle herself from the many limbed pile of her friends, but she doesn’t want to. Apparently Courf doesn’t either. He looks around, his cheeks slightly flushed from warmth and wine. He’s an adult, he has a ride home with a safe driver, and him drinking won’t majorly fuck him over in any way before tomorrow. Besides, a tipsy Courf is happy and slightly random and just more… Courf. And that’s a truly delightful thing. 

“Rose, bud, thorn!” He sits bolt upright. 

“What?” Marius - who she probably should have cut off - looks up from petting Courf.

“I was umm…” Courf blushes. “I was supposed to bring a party game. And, I just remembered: Rose, Bud, Thorn. I know it’s not New Years yet, and it’s kind of ‘tell us what you’re thankful for’, but… yeah.”

Enjolras shifts in her seat, and pulls out her phone to check… and probably discovers that yes, Courf _was_ responsible for the party game and that they need to play games because that’s what the party plan says. Which gets R back to that feeling of the Thing™ not really being a party-party but some sort of meeting party hybrid come family gathering. Not that she’s sure she minds. Minding might mean admitting how much she’s needed this and how glad she is that she’s come.

“Wait… what is rose, bud, thorn? Is it some kind of sexual thing?” Marius’ voice is too loud. His ears turn red, and he might be starting to fumble at buttons... Shit. She should have cut him off. 

“No.” Gavroche frowns. “That’s stupid. What would that be, anyway?” 

There’s a look that gets exchanged over his head. Gav is sitting, which helps because he surpassed Bossuet, Eponine (who is Bossuet’s height, but only in stocking feet), Joly, Courf, Fuilley, and Ferre this year. When he’s standing, only Bahorel and Marius are still tall enough to exchange looks over his head… but that probably won’t last all that much longer. Gav is the only person who still has an appetite and is eating cookies out of the front pocket of his hoodie. Not because he needs to hide or protect his food, but because hoodie cookies taste better.  
Whatever. He’s fourteen. Bossuet’s almost-foolproof-as-long-as-you-remember-the-ginger cookies are amazing. The worst thing that Gav is going to do is have crumbs in his laundry.

“Okay, so, Rose, Thorn, Bud.” Courf claps his hands together and they respond in almost a pavlovian way. Cosette and Musichetta almost manage to untangle themselves from the beanbag and its valiant effort to make them into a two-woman cephalopod. “A win, a challenge, and a new adventure.” He looks around the room, trying to find someone. “Fine, I’ll start.”

“You don’t need to sound so much like a disappointed teacher.”

Courf crosses his arms. “Pero, chiquititos, estoy tan triste que no quieran jugar conmigo.” 

“He’s… he’s sad that no one wants to play with him,” Marius stage whispers to Cosette across the room. “But not like reflexively.” She manages to squirm out of the bean bag and come over to pet his hair. Not because Cosette is particularly drunk, but because Marius is, and he needs that. 

“Now you just sound like a sad spanish teacher.” Bahorel manages to cut to the heart of the issue, as usual.

“Shut up, I am a sad spanish teacher!” Courf takes a dramatic swig of his tea. Because Courf goes through life in a state of drama. “That’s my thorn: my friends, my lovely wonderful friends, the light of my life who keep me from walking into the dark abyss that is trying to teach impressionable young people how to conjugate irregular verbs in the subjunctive while providing a supportive environment for them to be themselves while also fighting with the bureaucracy that is a high school administration… those wonderful friends won’t play party games with me when I have so carefully prepared them!” 

Someone snorts. It might be Enjolras.

“My bud,” Courf continues, ignoring the interruption, “the thing that is bringing me light in the darkness, is your willingness to join in this game.” He flops down onto the futon, landing in Ferre and Jehan’s laps without jarring Ferre’s bad leg. Courf has a gift.

Jehan looks around the room nervously, before Courf takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze while looking him in the eyes. Stupid teacher voluntelling mojo.

“I… me too,” Jehan says. “You’re the flowers of my life and the family I’ve always wanted. You all are my roses.” Courf squeezes his shoulder. “And, even though this year has been hard and we’ve watched so many bad things, it gives me hope that we take up the sword and fight.” 

R’s belly fills with something warm.

Courf nods and squeezes Jehan’s hand again, and R is secretly glad she’s not so close. Not because she objects to hand holding, but because she’s pretty sure that if he squeezed her hand, she wouldn’t be able to control the wince that comes from having swollen joints squeezed.

Courf, having acknowledged Jehan, turns the full force of his teacher’s gaze to Risa, Bahorel’s girlfriend.

From her end of the couch, Risa, looks up, and pulls something out from down her shirt: a key on a string. “He’s decided to make a dishonest woman of me. And, to think, I only got with him for the cranberry sauce. So, ummm, I have to move next month and we’re not doing the car thing so I might have to figure out how to carry my nightstand on MTA, but you’re all invited for a housewarming party when we do… maybe for Valentines?”

“As long as we don’t do more food gambling.” 

“But…dreidel,” Courf pouts.

“Yes, dreidel,” Bahorel agrees. “But I think that can of haggis was a bad bet. Particularly after you dumped the adobos on, R! No more gambling with my stomach like that.” 

“But… it sounds like such a good opportunity for food fusion,” Risa grins. “Don’t you think IrnBru horchata would be great?”

“I don’t think that belongs in horchata.” Musichetta is starting to look slightly uncomfortable.

“Sure it does, Risa insists. “You just sub it out for the coke.”

There’s a look exchanged around the room. “Umm… Risa, you know that horchata doesn’t have coke, right?”

“It does if you’re not a coward!”

Courf reflexively goes for something in his pocket, and Bossuet looks quickly between Musichetta who is starting to look murderous and blithe Risa. “Right, umm, I’m really excited that I've broken my record of not breaking things. It’s been two months since we had to buy a new toaster.” 

“You… you don’t eat toast,” R points out quietly.

“Yes, but I haven’t blown up a toaster this year! Let me have my victory. I hope I’ll be able to continue next year while actually making toast,” Bossuet continues. “Actually, let me offer a toast now: to friendship, rice horchata, and living out of wedlock!”

He and Joly clink their mugs full of… whatever, and the grumpy cat one in Bossuet's hand chips. “Damn it,” he mutters cheerfully.

Joly reaches out for his hand, and when he determines the wetness is chocolate milk (by kissing it), he smiles. (Also where did the chocolate milk come from? Her best friends got chocolate milk and they didn’t share with her?!?) “I feel so lucky to have two wonderful partners who love me for who I am, even when all I can talk about is how much isn’t working with my experiments. But, umm, I'm excited about my new cell line? And maybe next year will be the year I get enough data to publish!”

There are some scattered applause at this.

Enjolras grins, fondly, and Joly gives him a nod. “My rose is, can I say, Alexandra Occacio Cortez?”

R sees a pair of fingers in her periphery, counting, and reaches over to tap Joly’s ankle in time.

“My thorn is the --”

The sound of 14 kazoos drown Enjolras out.

“The kazoos of civility have spoken,” Courf announces grandly. 

He starts to grin. Then, Ferre starts laughing. Enjolras sits stoic for a few moments more, until she can’t hold it in any more and her shoulders start to shake.  
Enjolras’s laugh might be the most magical thing ever.

It takes Courf a few minutes to sober. “While you can be pleased with national politics, national politics are for regular meetings, not parties. Go to the corner of shame and consider what you’ve done.” He turns to the group. “Feuilly, my friend, what about you?”

Feuilly finished their GED and has been accepted at college with a scholarship. This gets another big round of applause and a toast. They’ve all known, some had helped with the application at various stages. But, this is huge: Feuilly… left home when they were thirteen. She’s seen pictures of baby Feuilly, and they looked too young to be out after curfew, let alone out on their own. Education has been a hard won battle, and she’s so excited for them… even if it means figuring out how to pay for school. 

Musichetta, Cosette, and Marius have smaller things in their lives. Chetta is excited to go see a new movie with her friends - an invitation to anyone who doesn't object to mass movie theaters because this one won’t be in the arts theater. She’s a little nervous they’ll get kicked out again - R personally has warnings from two theaters for “talking” (describing the movie to Joly) but maybe this new one won’t be full of ableist assholes. Probably still will… but a girl can dream. Cosette’s father has finally accepted Marius as a concept, but not so much Marius as a person. The good news is he’s agreed to have dinner. The bad news is he’s agreed to have dinner. And Marius, being Marius, uses the whole thing as an excuse to praise Cosette while managing to put his foot in six or seven major social issues. R couldn’t have done better if she’d been trying. Truly, the man has a gift.

Bahorel is celebrating the fact that he’s still not a doctor, lawyer, or out of graduate school. (Again, some people have a gift.) Of course, that means the continuation of the awkward discussion with his family, his mom following him around the house chanting, “adult wage”, and pointed commentary about getting a real job. But, hey, maybe the whole living in sin thing will distract them. 

Gav praises Eponine's newfound ability to cook good food, except vegetables. But, who knows, maybe she’ll get over that? And, Ponine talks about how much she enjoyed spending time with them. She and R go out dancing, sometimes, and there’s occasionally post work food. Not as much as before she got custody of Gavroche, but custody of her brother is worth missed food. Still, Ponine thinks the girls should go out together again.

That somehow leaves just… R and Enjolras.

“Alright, Taire,” Courf looks over expectantly. 

Her heart freezes for a moment. What is she supposed to say? That she almost didn’t come and she’s glad she did? That she’s always so afraid that Enjolras and Combeferre don’t want her around that she almost dashed out? She’s not sure, until she opens her mouth and the words tumble out. 

“I… I umm, I’m just… I’m glad we’re doing this. Like, this specifically. I mean, I’m glad to have you guys as friends, I’m lucky to have so many good friends. But, umm, yeah, no, I was kinda nervous to come? And, I’m so glad I did. And, I really hope there will be leftover turkey that we can take home, because holy fuck, Turkey?”

And fuck, maybe this was the wrong thing to say, but the grin across Enjolras’ face says maybe not.

“Fuck yes, you can have turkey,” Ferre confirms. “Please, all of you, take the turkey. Leave the cranberries, but take the turkey!”

“And, on that note,” Enjolras announces, “my rose is the fact that we had this party and you all came, and everything is good. My thorn is that my roommate keeps saying fowl things about my contribution, but my bud is a hope that we can do this again soon.”

That warrants another toast, and a hardy drink of the cooling mint tea or wine.

* * *

The slushy sleety grossness has settled into snow, coating the sidewalk with a thick layer. Courf somehow convinces Gavroche to go shovel the sidewalk and driveway with him while the rest of them linger inside, collecting foil-covered plates, pots, pans, tupperware, and reusable bags. (The bags that were Jehan’s are… once again Jehan’s. Then again, maybe it's better that he has the orange and pink paisley tote bag with a lurid green hedgehog. R’s not sure the environment is worth carrying something that looked like the 70s threw up, except under duress. But, Jehan seems delighted.) 

Joly checks that he’s got his cane, taking Bossuet’s arm and unfurling it as they step outside. They stand in the driveway, heads craned up toward the sky. They’re too close to the city and there’s too much light pollution, and Joly’s night vision is basically non-existent, but somehow, she knows that the night sky is taking their breath away. ...Until an expertly thrown snowball from Gavroche manages to hit Bossuet’s hip at just the right spot to send snow sliding down his jeans.

R lingers by the door for some reason she can’t quite name. Okay, she can. She was raised right, and she needs to thank Enjolras, Ferre, and Courf personally for hosting and gush at them for a good five minutes because that’s what adults do. (Incidentally, she’s found that as she’s gotten older, her goodbyes take longer.) Unfortunately, almost all mothers around the world are the same, and so goodbyes are taking time. 

Finally, there’s a moment where she and Enjolras aren’t both hugging other people.

“Thank you so much,” she gushes. “For the turkey, and the… the everything.” 

“Thanks.” Enjolras grins. And, maybe R is slightly tipsy (okay, R is slightly tipsy), but she looks more beautiful than usual, and if R is completely honest with herself, she’s about a car ride and a drink away from a bisexual panic in Musichetta’s room. “And, umm, if you’re around after Christmas, text me? Or I’ll text you?”

“Yeah,” R agrees, with no real intention of doing it.

“I need someone to go see the visiting Picasso exhibition at the art museum,” Enjolras insists.

And, fuck. R is now three minutes and no drinks away from a bisexual panic. 

“I umm, okay.” Her mouth is traitorous.

Enjolras grins. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“Do!” Musichetta insists, brushing past. “Otherwise R will be all lonely and mopey.”

“Don’t want that!” Enjolras agrees. “So, umm, yeah, after I get bacsk. We’ll go?”

“Good, thanks.” R leans in for a tentative hug, and Enjorlas embraces her warmly. 

“I’m really glad you came,” Enjolras says.

“Me, too. It was a really great party.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a self-indulgent holiday gift in like 2016, inspired by thinking about how R would freak out over Enjolras making a turkey. Three and a half years, two jobs, an ocean, nine time zones, several subway rides, and 7500 words, and a bang later, here you have my Christmas fic! 
> 
> The bathroom sign vandalism thing was definitely somewhat inspired by [this post](https://angrypedestrian.tumblr.com/post/183651267796/if-you-write-down-the-results-and-properly-format) by [theangrypedestrian](https://angrypedestrian.tumblr.com) on tumblr, although the original long ago version definately had more bathroom-related vandalism plus a ten minute rant from Enjolras about the engineering building. Aren’t you glad that got buried in one of the zillion google docs that form the backstory for this fic?
> 
> The kazoos of civility were introduced in a [tumblr post](https://me-talk-kitty-one-day.tumblr.com/post/153498690912/celticpyro-starfoozle-oh-my-god-so-my-mom) by celtipyro and are also not my invention. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Questions, comments, concerns, suggestions, and seasonally inappropriate holiday greetings all welcome!


End file.
